He wore nothing more than the loincloth and the earth-coloured, unsown cloak.
"Siddhartha" by Herman Hesse
The leaves of its forests will never fall; its fields will yield harvests unsown.
"Famous Men of the Middle Ages" by John H. Haaren
You must make me boots that will wear for a year, neither losing shape nor coming unsown.
"What Men Live By and Other Tales" by Leo Tolstoy
Your race has sprung from a very beam of grace, like some wondrous tree unsown by any germ.
"Abbe Mouret's Transgression La Faute De L'abbe Mouret" by Emile Zola
The fields were left unsown, flocks of sheep were deserted by their shepherds.
"A Source Book Of Australian History" by Compiled by Gwendolen H. Swinburne
In the long black furrows yet unsown a peasant pushed his plow.
"The Promised Land" by Mary Antin
England surely did not bring up the Heroic Tragedy on its unsown soil.
"Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 57, No. 353, March 1845" by Various
Our millet still unsown, we haste away.
"The Wisdom of Confucius" by Epiphanius Wilson
The fallow ground left unsown is soon sown by the winds with every vagrant seed of evil.
"Old Wine and New" by Joseph Cross
Her mind might be a garden unsown.
"Mariquita" by John Ayscough
Now far from my old northern land,
I live where gentle winters pass;
Where green seas lave a wealthy strand,
And unsown is the grass;
"A Prayer for the Past: Now far from my old northern land," by George MacDonald
Unploughed, unsown, by scythe unshorn,
The poor, forsaken farm-fields lie,
Once rich and rife with golden corn
And pale green breadths of rye.
"The Homestead" by John Greenleaf Whittier
"And this it is that haunts you now,
That deed undone, that seed unsown;
Too late, too late to take the plough,
The Spring is fled, the May is flown!"
"Haunted" by Charles Hanson Towne
It is finished. What is finished?
Much is finished known or unknown:
Lives are finished; time diminished;
Was the fallow field left unsown?
Will these buds be always unblown?
"Amen" by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Our wiser Fathers left their Fields unsown,
Their Food was Acorns, Love their sole Imploy,
They met, they lik'd, they stay'd but till alone,
And in each Valley snatch'd the honest Joy:
"Elegy VII" by James Hammond